


Simple geometry

by bluebells



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angry healer is Akande's favourite kind of healer, Field Injury, M/M, Talon has no healer, Talon needs no healer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 09:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: Everyone always blames the snipers.Written for the prompt:"Lúcio's legs are completely numb because of some incident during Vishkar, so he can't walk without the meka legs. He's on the battlefield and something happens so he can't use them. Doomfist says "stand up and fight" and Lúcio's like "WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M TRYING TO DO?!" then Doomfist tries to approach to see what's wrong and Lúcio's like "Give me a minute, man." But he still can't get up."





	Simple geometry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CryptidBae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryptidBae/gifts).



> Too many snipers, no tank heroes.

“Scatter.”

Akande leaps behind the parked cars for cover, narrowly missing the rain of arrows from Shimada’s bow. That man’s skill would be an asset to his team. A shame he would not –

“Ah!” 

The body that crashes down from above, misses him by inches. The car Akande had chosen for cover bows gently under the man’s fall, windshield splintering, pearly hood absorbing the impact. Gasping in shallow breaths, a hand-held speaker falls from the man’s grip to the pavement. Dark skin, dressed in blues, green and gold with a clear yellow visor, the young man is built like an athlete. More than that, there’s something… familiar about him. Akande can’t place the tattoo on his left arm, but he’s seen it before.

Akande frowns between the man’s wince of pain and the windowless skyscrapers above them. 

Where had this man come from?

“DJ down,” the man wheezes, sounding winded. Akande doesn’t think the man is talking to him, isn’t sure the man is even aware of him still crouched for cover. The man’s voice is gritted as he breathes through his injuries. “76, I was in pursuit. Tell Hanzo his calculations were off. Just a bit. No hard feelin -- _nnngh_.”

The pained groan and creak of metal tell Akande the man is trying to lift himself from his metal cradle. 

It’s time to make himself known.

Glancing around quickly for any signs of the Japanese sniper, he deems it safe enough to rise. 

Akande grunts a short laugh under his breath the moment the other man freezes, eyes widening at the shape rising by his shoulder.

“Oh damn,” the other man breathes, staring up at him. His hand is still braced around his ear, a bad habit of young agents with their comms.

Not merely an athlete, then.

Akande appraises the length of him. It’s a short appraisal. “Well, you’re not one of mine.”

“Ugh. Help,” the man’s voice thins with a crack, looking away to try pulling himself up by the soft, rounded edge of the windshield. He doesn’t gain much traction, pushing up on his elbows alone. 

Akande blinks at his slippery efforts after a long moment, shaking his head. “The enemies of Talon have lowered their standards in my absence. At least stand up and fight.”

He earns a hot glare from behind that yellow visor. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

The audacity of his tiny enemy turning his back on one of the most dangerous men of the century is galling. All so he can pull himself up by his upper body strength alone. 

Akande frowns. 

The way this man is moving… more precisely how he is _not_. Something is not right.

“You are injured.”

The other man heaves a shaking breath, sweat beading his brow as he finally pulls himself up to sit. Akande watches the man’s body seize and tighten with a hiss of pain when he tries to rest his weight on his hips. Instead the man braces himself on his hands, body trembling, chin almost hanging to his chest as he inhales sharply through his nose, eyes closing.

“I’ll fight you if you want, big guy. Just give me a minute.”

Akande’s mouth twists into a scowl. “I do not fight cripples.”

That anger flashes hot at him again, lancing through the sweat and tremors of the man’s pain. “I’m no more crippled than you with that arm. Keep talking.”

His wrath is amusing. Despite his weakened state, the fire in the man’s eyes, in his voice, is not mere boast. His friends will be closing in on his latest position, but Akande has a moment to press on from what he overheard.

“Why is a DJ on the field of battle?”

The man arches a weary look at him and grunts, favouring his weight with one hand. He slaps a large, silver disc on his armoured thigh. An identical disc is also mounted on the other. “Audio medic.”

A medic? Akande frowns between the discs, fog lifting as he realises that he’s looking at modified turntables. Audio… the manipulation of sound for cellular regeneration? “How does that work?”

“Well, it’s not working right now.”

Akande tilts his head to consider the way this man is favouring any pressure on his lower back, his sharp wince and the beading sweat that looks like growing panic, trembling, breaths coming fast as he glares at his unmoving feet. The man is wearing rollerblades, Akande realizes. A rollerblading audio medic? 

“It is your spine.”

“I don’t need you telling me about my body!”

Akande’s comm chirps gently in his ear. 

“Boss, enemies on my radar,” Sombra informs him. 

His window is shrinking, but Sombra doesn’t sound concerned so he has time. Akande looks down at the prone man on the dented car before him and makes a split second decision.

“Whoa hey, hey, hey!” the other man flails as Akande scoops an arm behind his back, another behind his knees, and pulls him to his chest. The combined weight of his gear and armour makes him heavier than he looks. The man is also surprisingly strong, immediately pushing back to insert some distance between them, but his effort is token in their contest of strength. Akande smirks at his wide-eyed look of shock, the way his features slacken with the first hint of fear. It curls warmth through Akande’s chest, knotting low in his gut, and tightens his grip against the man’s struggles. “What are you doing?”

“You’re going to tell me how your technology works.” Akande dips a knee and picks up the fallen hand-held speaker, tossing it into the medic’s lap. He glances back in the direction of heavy, booted footsteps pounding the pavement, and the high whine of mechanic thrusters. 

The cavalry has arrived.

“But not here.”

“Oh no – no, nononono!” Those gloved hands stop shoving and seize his shoulders in panic when he leaps for cover between the next block of buildings, landing by a tall lane of ferns.

In Akande’s ear, Sombra hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t know we were recruiting new talent.”

“Not recruitment,” Akande says under his breath, earning the attention of his captive. Fingers tighten around the thick muscle of his shoulders, and he leaps again before the man can protest.

“Oh, a hostage!” Sombra sounds delighted. Akande imagines her leaning back from her console in the ship to check the polish of the mods at her fingertips. “I didn’t know we took hostages now. Gabe is gonna love this.”

“Prepare the ship’s med bay for our arrival.” Akande adjusts his hold when his package grunts in a stifled noise of pain, shifting in his arms. The medic clings as close as he can to Akande without pressing his face to Akande’s chest. It still gives Akande unfettered access to his high tail of dreadlocks, scratching beneath his chin. Irritating. “And ready the engines. We have company on our back. We’ll leave Shimada for another day.”

Sombra hums to herself and Akande can tell she wants to share her commentary. For her own benefit, she holds her tongue. “By the way, I’ve ID’d your medic. You know who you’re carrying, right? You know that’s the Hero of Rio? He drove Vishkar out of his favela, led a huge uprising. It was all over the world news. He’s not gonna help you.”

The Hero of Rio?

Akande smirks down at his charge whose face has lost some colour in his effort to hold on as Akande leaps from cover to cover. He feels doubly pleased about his decision now. “Is that right?”

“What?” the man looks up into his face, mistaking the question for him.

Sombra tells Akande his name, and the pieces fall into place.

“Lúcio Correia dos Santos.” Akande enjoys the way the name curls on his tongue, almost as much as the way the man shivers to hear it, shrinking on himself in the cage of Akande’s arms. “It is an honour. This _will_ be interesting.”

**Author's Note:**

> I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow to the knee. The thought here is that Hanzo's scatter shot nicked Lucio at a vulnerable place in his augmentation, cutting off the connection to his mechanised legs while wall riding. Because there are only so many times Hanzo will decline your job offers before he just shoots you, collateral be damned. 
> 
> Much love to my Hanzo mains, I actually support your decisions and will always damage boost you in patient expectation for you to kill something. I believe in you but thank f*ck this game doesn't register friendly fire.
> 
> Living it up in the Doomcio tag through [my place of residence](http://bellsyblue.tumblr.com/), come join us.


End file.
